


Tranquility: Bonus Material

by geekyjez



Series: Isii Lavellan (Non-Canon AUs) [18]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:50:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyjez/pseuds/geekyjez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of pov-switches and side-stories set within the Tranquility AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fen'Harel's POV from Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tranquility](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394) by [geekyjez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyjez/pseuds/geekyjez). 



> I've had requests to write a number of short pieces that tie into Tranquility. The majority of these retell scenes from the original story from Fen'Harel's perspective. There's a chance that some of these may be posted out of chronological order, depending on the requests I get. Each chapter will open with a brief description to what part of the story it connects to, to make it easier to follow along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happened during [Chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/7097384) when Fen'Harel left Isii alone in her tent.

Fen’Harel pushed into their tent. He kicked his own bedding aside with his foot, kneeling as he lowered her gently onto her bedroll. Isii pushed him away as he released her, quick to put as much distance between them as possible. He watched as she sat, her body tense, primed as if ready to leap to her feet and run as she stared at him. Her eyes were wide, reddened and swollen from tears, her breaths ragged and strained. He couldn’t help but see her like some wounded animal – covered in her own blood, watching him warily as if he were seconds from devouring her, uncertain if she should cower or fight. It pained him to see fear in her eyes. He tried to reassure her, reaching for her cheek but she flinched, jerking away with a sharp, hissing breath.

He pulled his hand back, open palm raised, non-threatening and apologetic as he sat back on his heels. This wasn’t how he’d wanted her to learn the truth. This day had been ugly and traumatic. He’d always intended to ease her into it, to reveal his identity in an environment where she felt safe, to have a conversation where he could explain his reasoning, where he could assure her that he meant her no harm.

Instead she’d seen her lover turn into the monster her people had taught her to fear.

A few of her soldiers pushed into the tent, delivering the food and water he’d ordered them to retrieve. She stared up at them, a pained and worried look on her face and for a moment he feared she would raise the alarm. He had no reason to fear the men and women who served under her. There was no conceivable way they could harm him unless he chose to submit to them. Still, he didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to hurt them. He did not want to flee, chased off by the very people he had done so much to help.

Isii remained silent, lowering her gaze as they left.

Fen’Harel reached for the wooden slat that held her meal, sliding it closer before she snatched it away, jerking it from his grasp. “I will not have you feeding me,” she hissed.

He pulled his hand back, studying her face. Her eyes were narrowed into harsh slits, lips drawn into a sneer, the intensity of her glare making his jaw tighten, his fists clenched. His chest constricted, his eyes stinging as he struggled to steady himself.

He had to get out of there.

“Clean yourself up once you have eaten,” he said, his voice hollow and cold as he pushed himself to his feet. “I will return when you are done.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, pushing roughly out of the tent. He tore through the camp in long strides, avoiding eye-contact, his heart pounding hard in his ears. He needed distance, needed to be alone, needed solitude for the breakdown he could feel was about to spill out of him. His eyes burned, the pressure within him moments from boiling over and it took every ounce of his willpower not to run as he pushed past the tree line and out of sight.

He hated himself for this. Hated himself for being so foolish, for letting himself get so attached, for letting his desires blind him. If he’d had more control, he never would have pursued his feelings, never would have hurt her, never would have allowed himself to be so driven by grief and rage that he would reveal his identity like he had. He hadn’t changed form simply to protect her. He’d done it to satisfy his own desire to make those men suffer for what they’d done, for what they were going to do. They’d made him feel powerless, unable to save either one of them from a fate worse than death, and he sought retribution.

And for what? She learned the truth and he watched her slip away from him, witnessed her fear, too afraid even to let him touch her without resistance.

Hot tears began to roll onto his cheeks as he shuddered, his body clenched, tightened, twisted and knotted and trying to hold them back. He’d seen hatred in her eyes, heard it biting off of her tongue and the worst part was he knew. He’d known all along. This was always a possibility, perhaps even an inevitability. This was bound to happen one day, but it came far too soon. He wasn’t ready to lose her. She’d allowed him to feel as he never had before, to dream of a life he’d never imagined for himself. If anything, he desperately wanted to go back into that lie, to curl up inside it and forget that any of this had happened.

The thought made him pause, struggling and failing to steady his breaths as he braced himself against a nearby tree.

He could make her forget.

He knew the reality of that option. He could slip back into her tent and with a single word, a single brush of his fingers, he could erase what she saw. He could take away the last few moments, he could take away her terror and pain, he could take away the image of the Dread Wolf. The thought would linger there in her subconscious, buried and inaccessible, and she would see him as Solas once more. She would embrace him, thankful to have him safe in her arms, both of them freed from the Templars who’d held them. He could credit her trauma for causing the lapse in her memory, tell her they got lucky in their escape.

He knew she would believe anything he said without a second thought.

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as he buried his head in his hands.

If he left her memories unchanged, if he let her remember this, then everything he was trying to accomplish was at risk. But how could he live with himself if he changed her? How could he not be sickened when she wrapped her arms around him, knowing that he’d molded her into a form that he found more convenient for his uses? He could tell himself that the genuine nature of his love negated any claim that he was abusing her before, but this… if he forced the lie upon her unwillingly…

The alternative would be to make her forget and then push her away, to abuse her mind and then break her heart, unable to offer a single satisfactory explanation for what had changed.

His breaths grew ragged, a broken sound ripping from the tightness in his throat, muffled by his palm. He couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t alter her mind. He told himself he should, that his purpose had to be more important than her, that he could not risk the fate of the People over this mistake when he had the means to correct it.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He closed his eyes, shoulders hunched as he curled in on himself, the rough bark of the tree digging into his back. He took a few gulping breaths before he was able to still the torrent raging within him, trapping it, pressing it down until it lay buried behind a false sense of composure. He wiped roughly at his cheeks, inhaling deeply, his jaw clenched as he relaxed the features of his face.

When he returned to the camp, it was at a slow pace, his face drawn behind the mask he always wore, however cracked and worn around the edges it now was.

He would try to make her understand. He would try to salvage this in whatever way he could.

She knew he was the Dread Wolf and he would face the consequences head on.

He owed her that much.


	2. Questions About Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some further detail on the thoughts and motivations behind [Chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/7618787) of Tranquility.

**Considering the circumstances, I can't blame Fen'harel for being suspicious of her intentions, so how come she decides to place her trust in him? Why would she believe he really wants to help?**

She doesn’t trust him. She knows he’s not a monster. She knows that he never intended for this to happen. She felt the intensity of his remorse through Dirthamen’s artifact. By all appearances, his confession seemed genuine and heart-felt and part of her can’t deny the possibility that everything she knows about the Creators is wrong. After all, Fen’Harel isn’t anything like what she’d imagined…

But she knows he’s a very good liar. Her instincts say he is telling her the truth but she can’t deny the possibility that it’s just another deception. 

Her arrangement with him is not based on pre-existing trust. It’s fueled mostly by her circumstances. What else could she do? Make him her enemy? Bar him from the Inquisition and end up fighting two would-be gods at once as all three of them try to take possession of the orb? She is much better off with him as her ally. She could use him against Corypheus. If he believes that she will help him, then he will continue to help her. 

So was she lying or does she genuinely want to be the Dread Wolf’s accomplice? 

I don’t know if Isii knows for certain. Either way, the arrangement is a stalling tactic. She can decide what she’s going to do about him after they deal with the larger issue: keeping Corypheus from tearing the world apart in his quest to re-enter the Fade. In many ways, she feels as though she is playing a very dangerous game with him. Everything she knows of the Dread Wolf tells her that only a fool would make a deal with him, thinking they can use him for their benefit. But that’s exactly what she’s doing.

She wants a better future for the People. She’ll decide whether or not he genuinely wants the same once this war is done.

* * *

 

_**“We will retrieve the orb. But if you wish to take possession of it again, if you and I are to work together in this, then I need to know that I can trust you. There are to be no more secrets between us.” She could see that he was considering the arrangement, though she could not guess as to what his thoughts were in regards to it."** _

**What were his thoughts?**

In this section of Part 4, his thoughts are rather complicated. There are things he has to consider before agreeing:

  * She could be lying. While he knows Isii is generally an honest person, she is not above deception. She has used it before to her advantage and he knows she is able to put on a false face very convincinglywhen she feels she must. She could be offering such an alliance in order to keep him as an asset for her use, only now with the intent to actively keep the orb from him in the end by whatever means necessary. It would make sense for her to do so. She does not trust him and she knows the orb is a weapon of extreme world-ending power. In the end, he decides she is telling the truth as he does not see any of her tells. She is a good liar, but he still knows her well enough to feel somewhat confident that he could spot a falsehood.
  * He’s surprised she would offer to help him. As previously stated, the orb is a dangerous weapon. She believes he is an inherently evil god. There is no reason why she should want to see it returned to him. On top of that, she has every right to despise him now that she knows he is responsible for giving Corypheus the means to cause all of this suffering. He doesn’t understand her motivation and it makes him uneasy.
  * The idea of being completely open with her is disquieting. He recognizes the irony in this. He has longed to be fully honest with her for a long time now and yet given these circumstances, given how she appears to hate him so passionately, he is hesitant. There are aspects of himself, parts of his past, that he is not proud of. He has never been a cruel man, but that does not mean he was always what he would consider a good man. He does not know precisely how much she would demand of him in this bargain of complete honesty. If she delved into topics that he did not want to discuss, his refusal would simply reinforce her belief that he is actively keeping things from her in order to deceive her. It is a worrying position that he does not feel entirely comfortable with.




	3. Using Dirthamen's Stone Once More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Fen'Harel saw in Isii's mind during [Chapter 6.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/8196875)

The descent was measured. Controlled.  _Good._ He focused on his breathing, steadying himself so that he could consciously shift through her thoughts. There was a strange intimacy to it, pushing deeper into her mind until the lines between them blurred. The language of thought was insufficient. This task required feeling his way into her. He focused on her advisers, on the War Room, trying to pull up relevant memories. They all came rushing as a flood - their introductions at Haven, the debate over siding with the mages, dinners, drinks in the tavern, card games. He slowed his descent and pieced through them, tried to narrow them down. He wanted recent memories.

He could hear Ambassador Montilyet before he could see her, the vision taking shape around him. “That’s not possible,” she muttered. “Lady Volant assures me that Duke Antoine is nothing but a friend to the Inquisition. His contributions to our organization alone speak toward his high esteem for our leadership.”

“Jester is one of my best,” Leliana said, her brow strained. “While he cannot determine the details, all of his reports suggest that something is going on beneath the surface. We may want to consider that Wycome’s allegiance is suspect.”

Their voices felt distant. Isii was distracted, her mind elsewhere as they spoke. She was thinking about the Commander; of a private conversation the two of them had shared. Fen'Harel did not know the context or content of this discussion. He only knew how it made her feel, that the memory of it was on her mind. Cullen had been a comfort to her. She’d needed someone to talk to and he had been that for her. Whatever she’d shared with him had lifted a weight from her shoulders. For a brief moment he worried that it concerned him, but quickly dismissed the notion. Cullen had treated him no differently in recent days. He was certain his secret was still safe.

The memory was hazy, their words shifting in and out of focus. He pulled back, lifting his consciousness away. It wasn’t the strong performance he was hoping for, but he’d been able to manipulate her mind with far more control than before. It showed promise, sufficient for an interrogation. He maintained his connection to her, breathing deeply as he brought his awareness back into his own body.

He knew he’d failed the moment he saw her face.

Her eyes were wide, strained though unseeing. Isii was breathing heavily, her body shuddering. The fear in her expression was unmistakable and it made his stomach sink. She was frightened of him, scared of something within his mind. He couldn’t help but feel like this experiment had done nothing but reinforce her belief that he was something monstrous and the thought of it made him snarl.

Fen'Harel cursed as he gripped her wrist, tearing her hand away from the artifact. Her senses snapped back into the present moment, trembling beneath his touch as she looked up into his face. “I take it that was not a success.”

She shook her head. “It was different,” she said breathlessly, the tremor in her voice unavoidable. “Flashes. I couldn’t understand most of it, but I still saw.”

“Fine,” he said, releasing her and withdrawing to the table. “I will continue my work. I’ll let you know if there is any progress.” The words came automatically. He couldn’t help but blame himself. This was foolish. He should have had more control over the damned artifact. Whatever she’d seen, he was certain it was going to reinforce her distrust.

When his eyes met hers once more, he could see that they were wet, her breaths ragged. He stilled, his head tilting. It was clear she was fighting back tears. Even though he was certain he did not want to know the cause of them, he could not repress the compulsion to comfort her.

“Did you see something that distressed you?”

His steps were cautious as he drew close to her again. She stammered, unable to find words, lowering her head as her eyes closed. Her throat clenched, whimpering as he reached a tentative hand out to touch her chin.  She lifted her eyes to meet his, searching his face.

“Is there anything you need?” he whispered.

Her lips parted but she soon retreated, shrugging away from his touch. “Just let me know when you’ve figured out how to make the damn thing work.” She kept her eyes down, brushing past him quickly as she fled the archives. Fen'Harel watched her go, fighting the urge to follow. She needed comfort but he knew that was no longer his to give.

He let out a slow breath before returning to his work.


	4. The Elvhen Robes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Fen'Harel chose to dress Isii in the Elvhen robes from [A Little Piece of Elvhenan](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3643941) during the Fade sequence in [Chapter 9.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/9111694)

There was a feeling of dread that lingered, a weight in his stomach as the spirit opened its mind to him. Fen’Harel did not know what Isii might see and there were thousands of moments that had passed within these halls that he would not want her to witness. Moments of cruelty when he punished those who had slighted him - lacking context, he was certain it would make him look truly monstrous. Verbal spats where he would appear spiteful and selfish, which was not too far from the truth. Or more private moments, intimate moments, in which she would be right to view him as lascivious.

Even so, he began to form the dream around them. This was what she’d asked for and he’d promised there would be no more secrets between them. It was an impulsive decision to dress her as he did - a fairly mindless thought that made sense at the time. He was thinking of Elvhenan and dressed her accordingly. The robes she’d salvaged from that ruin were those of a noblewoman and the memory of how she looked wearing them had always stuck with him. It was how she would have dressed, had she lived in that time. The image came easily and he made it manifest. 

It wasn’t until he saw her standing beside the glass that the full weight of that vision struck him. She was beautiful. He had always found her beautiful and yet here, standing in his bedroom with the lights of Arlathan casting a faint glow on her unmarked face, he found himself aching for her. There was no heat to his longing, no lust behind his stare. Simply quieted awe. She looked as she would have if he’d had her then and it allowed him to pretend, for the briefest of moments, that it was true. That they were in another time, another world, one where he never had to deceive her, where she never learned to fear or hate him. He could pretend that he was back in a time when he did not need to seek atonement for sins he had yet to commit. A world where he could give her anything she desired, where his means were limitless. A world where he could love her freely and hope to receive that same love in return. 

Her eyes were wet when they met his, watering despite her attempts to hide it. Her hand moved down along the skirt of the robes, pinching the fabric between her fingers. “Your doing, I take it?”

He nodded. “I thought you might be more comfortable in something other than your nightclothes. I can change it to something else if you wish.”

“It’s not important,” she muttered, her eyes lowering to the floor. With something as simple as that, the fantasy diminished. Her discomfort returned; the way she avoided looking him in the eye, the way her shoulders angled, subtly curling in on herself, shrinking away from him. 

She wasn’t his. He could paint the picture in his mind, fool himself into thinking otherwise, but it would not make it so. 

There were some things even a god could not achieve. 


	5. Seeing His Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small glimpse into Fen'Harel's POV during the Fade sequence in [Chapter 9.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/9111694)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though it's by no means required, reading [Var Hellathen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3936295/chapters/8819326) will give this scene more context.

Her laughter rang across the hall, giggling through her objection. He did not need to turn to see who it was and for a moment Fen’Harel let his eyes close, allowing Isii to draw away from him. The laughter was both a balm and an open sore, soothing him while simultaneously forming a pit in his stomach. He followed the Inquisitor, lingering close as he saw his own familiar form pulling her into the dance. 

_Hello again, little halla._

Of all of them, Ghilan’nain was the one it had hurt the most to betray. Her face was the one that lingered in his thoughts, that slipped into his dreams. In weaker moments he found himself begging her for her forgiveness until his mind could fully grasp that the vision was not real. Ever since he realized the full depth of his mistake, her fate was the one he worried about. What had he sentenced her to in his failed bid to create a better world for the People?

He took a deep breath, pushing the thought from his mind. Isii was asking him questions and he calmly answered. Even as his lips moved, he could not take his eyes away, transfixed by how happy his friend looked, how she smiled, gazing up at him, laughing. It had been so long since he’d seen her so carefree - even in the years before he went into uthenera. He’d forgotten what it looked like. 

Seeing himself was bittersweet.

It would be wrong to say he hated the man he was then, for the word bore too much heat. He viewed his younger self much like a disappointed parent would. He could have been better, had the potential to do so much more. Mythal had told him as much and yet he lacked the perspective necessary to fully comprehend her meaning then. He was too caught up in the Game, the machinations, the intoxicating quality of limitless power. He savored playing the role of a god. He found it amusing, in his own infuriatingly smug way, that these elves could be so easily fooled into making deities of them all. It was little more than a dance and he enjoyed always being a few steps ahead of everyone else.

The foolish boy thought he was so incredibly clever.

He watched his younger self dance with Ghilan’nain, unable to keep from imagining a different woman in his arms. If Isii had lived in that time, would he have seen her for what she was? Would she have been precious to him? Would he have seen that she was unique, a blessing that he should never let slip through his fingers?Or would he have seen her as a challenge, something to be tamed, something to take pleasure in and nothing more? Would he have cast her aside so easily simply on the assumption that she wanted nothing more than the status that could be found by gracing a god’s bed?

He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms now, to lose himself in the dance as he had then, to smile and laugh and escape the weight of his responsibilities for a time. He wanted to feel the joy he’d felt in his youth, envious of it in a way he could not put into words. He wanted to share that with her, to pretend that things were different between them, to allow the Fade to let them both be a part of this vision and disregard the reality that they did not want to face. 

He did not act on his impulse, simply following as she stepped closer to the banquet table.

Isii wanted to see the faces of her gods and he provided them, albeit reluctantly. His eyes bore into Dirthamen, feeling a tight heat along the back of his neck, his anger still fresh despite the passage of time. To see him as an honored guest in his home, sitting at his table, drinking his wine - Fen’Harel tried to keep his voice level as he explained Falon’Din’s fall from grace but his mind was elsewhere. The Keeper of Secrets had never been his friend, not truly, yet they once held a sense of competitive respect between them as they both worked their schemes within the court of Arlathan. He never trusted Dirthamen. The Keeper of Secrets knew that and had used it to his advantage all too effectively. 

Even after all this time, he still wanted to see the man suffer for what he’d done.

“Are you alright?”

Her voice drew him out of his thoughts. Her look of concern was something much softer than he would have expected. She looked at him now as she had when they were friends; when they’d been more than that. 

Strange to feel so comforted by such a small gesture.

 

* * *

 

**"The older Fen’harel muttered something under his breath as his younger self raised his glass, gesturing to one of his servants." What did he mutter?**

For some context:

> _“No taste for dancing tonight, I take it?” he said, his countenance portraying nothing but teasing amusement. “At this rate the lot of you will drain my wine cellars.”_
> 
> _“It would be a pity for us to leave you in such dire need of resupply, lethallin,” Dirthamen said, smiling. “If you have need, you can always take from my vineyards – assuming, of course, you’re incapable of making up the difference yourself.”_
> 
> _Fen’Harel lifted his brow as he shrugged, finishing off his drink. “Believe me, it will be no trouble. I receive enough in tribute, my stores will be doubled by tomorrow.” The older Fen’Harel muttered something under his breath as his younger self raised his glass, gesturing to one of his servants._

The older Fen’Harel muttered an insult that roughly translates into “arrogant little shit”. 

Despite the friendly tone, the comments between Dirthamen and Fen’Harel were intended as a slight followed by a brag. Dirthamen was implying that his sway over the people was so lacking that he couldn’t do something as simple as keep himself well-supplied; that his wealth of influence was lacking. Fen’Harel’s response was essentially a boast that he not only had enough followers to leave him overflowing with tribute but that they were so dedicated to his worship that they would fulfill his every need tenfold. By saying it as if it was a trifling thing, it comes across in every sense as incredibly ungrateful. He knows he is taking advantage, he simply doesn’t care - hence the older Fen’Harel’s harsh judgement. 


	6. Waking in Arlathan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel's POV of waking up with Isii in his arms after the Fade sequence in [Chapter 9.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/9111694)

He could feel the weight of her, the warmth, so close that her scent acted as a balm to his senses. At first it was disorienting. He half-expected to open his eyes to see the inside of the tent they once shared. He entertained the thought that perhaps he had simply dreamed all of this - that his identity had not been revealed and this had all been some fitful vision of his own making. This wasn’t how it was all meant to happen. He would wake to find himself back on the path his life was supposed to take.

Even for the brief second before his eyes opened, he could not convince himself to believe that.

He couldn’t see her face, her head tucked against his chest, nuzzled close and angled down toward his stomach. His tunic was pinched lightly between her fingers, her breaths slow and steady as she slept. He felt compelled to brush her hair back but he remained still. She would be awake soon and he did not wish to speed the process. He wanted to stay here, to linger in this feeling, even if it was just a fleeting moment. He wanted to savor her closeness knowing full well that when she woke he would have to watch her recede from him. She would be upset, possibly angry, possibly frightened. He could picture her face as her senses returned to her - how her brow would crease, her eyes narrowing, her jaw clenching tightly. How she would push herself away from him, possibly glaring as if he were trying to take advantage of her sleeping form. 

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think of that now. He simply wanted to enjoy this small respite for what it was.

He felt her stir against him. Her hand shifted on his chest, her cheek rubbing along the front of his tunic. She let out a small sound, halfway to a whimper, as she took a deep breath. Fen’Harel kept his eyes closed. He prepared himself for her moment of realization when she would push herself away. 

Yet it did not come.

He opened his eyes again, peering down at her. She hadn’t moved, yet he knew she was conscious. He could hear it in her breathing, feel it in the way her body lay against his. He watched her, wishing he could see her face, wondering precisely what to make of her reaction. He heard her sigh, felt her relax against him once more. They stayed there for a time, awake, unmoving, in a wordless half-embrace. He could not help but feel a small amount of hope as he tightened his fingers around her shoulder, murmuring her name.

She lifted her head, leaning against his chest. There was something soft about her features, something in the way she gazed down at him that was familiar; close to how she used to look at Solas, yet not quite. She said nothing, studying his features. Her lips parted softly. Her eyes drifted briefly to his mouth - a movement so small and so brief that he easily could have missed it, yet it was there all the same. His chest felt tight, resisting the urge to draw her closer, to see how far his luck would take him if he tried to kiss her. As quickly as the thought came to him she was scooting away toward the end of the bed. 

“This place seems so much colder than it was back then,” she murmured after a long pause. “It was beautiful, once. It seems a shame to see it like this now.”

His throat clenched. He’d felt that way since he first set foot through the mirror, since his eyes first fell upon the hall and saw what his estate had become. This was no homecoming. He had not expected it to be, yet it was still distressing to see the remnants of all of his failings, preserved and abandoned. 

“I would not mourn the loss of it,” he said quietly. “It was inevitable that one day it would fall to ruin. Very few things last forever.”

All things were impermanent, except for him. 

Perhaps one day he would learn to accept that. 


	7. Fen'Harel's Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions about Fen'Harel's early morning in [Chapter 10.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/9396246)

**Why couldn't Fen'harel sleep?**

He had a dream that troubled him. His trip back to his estate brought a lot of things to the surface that he would rather not think about (made worse by actually seeing his kin again in the Fade). While I had not intended on writing much about it, the experience is making it difficult for him to sleep peacefully.

* * *

 

**What was he doing before everyone woke up?**

He was roaming the woods outside of their camp as the Wolf. 

It’s out of character because it is an unnecessary risk. Even though there are few in this world  _(outside of the Dalish)_  who would recognize him for who he is in that form, he still would not want to be spotted. Throughout his entire time with the Inquisition he strove to stay relatively unnoticed - and there is nothing unnoticeable about a giant six-eyed wolf. Every time he transforms there is a chance that someone will witness it, no matter how careful he is. But there is something cathartic in returning to that familiar skin, to lose himself in a run, to hunt. He does not do it often - only in quiet moments where he can slip away without being seen, when his absence will not be noted, when he needs to escape his thoughts. It helps to remind himself what it feels like to be the man he was before uthenera, before he deluded himself into thinking that he could have someone like her. And even with as base and primal as it is, there is something satisfying in taking his aggression out on a hunt.

_(The sudden appearance of fresh meat makes a little more sense now, hmm?)_


	8. The Sex Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isii mistakenly accusses Fen'Harel of invading her mind while she slept, inadvertently confessing to having a sexually charged dream about him. A **non-canonical** take on what _could_ have happened between scenes in [Chapter 10,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/9396246) written from both POVs.

##  Isii's POV:

“Sleep well?”

She glanced over to Fen’Harel as she disassembled her tent. His eyes were cast down, focused on packing his belongings. “I could have used a few more minutes,” she answered. She could feel her cheeks growing warm. A few more minutes and she would have been able to actually get to the good part. Maybe then she would have woken up somewhat satisfied rather than feeling an unfulfilled ache between her legs. 

He hummed absentmindedly. “Did Dorian interrupt a good dream when he woke you?”

She stilled, her eyes narrowing as her stomach tightened. “Why?”

He did not look up. “The Fade can often offer what waking cannot. I find myself feeling quite unsatisfied if I am pulled from a dream I was actively partaking in.” He glanced up briefly and her heart began to race, a panicked heat flooding her face.

“Tell me you didn’t…”

His brow tightened as he peered at her. “Did not what, Inquisitor?”

His lips twitched.  _Was the son of a bitch resisting the urge to smirk?_  She suddenly felt nauseous, her breaths quickening as she tightened her hands into fists. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“You’re going to have to be much more specific.”

She closed the distance between them, giving his shoulders a hard shove. He took a step back, baffled as she glowered. “What in the Void do you think you’re playing at?”

He scanned her face, frowning. “I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Are you really so desperate to get your hands on me that you would invade my privacy like that? What gives you the right to get inside my head… to make me think-”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” he said, cutting her off.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Am I to believe you are so intent to hate me that you are now inventing misdeeds to blame me for?” he snapped at her.

“You know the only way I would ever let you touch me like that is if I didn’t think it was real,” she spat. 

His head tilted, his brow arching. “Really now? And how exactly did you let me touch you?”

“You’re sick,” she said, turning back to her tent. She heard him following, keeping his voice low so the others would not hear.

“I should at least know what you are accusing me of, should I not?”

“I’m not going to give you a detailed account of you having your way with me,” she hissed. “But now I’m relieved that Dorian woke me up when he did.”

He began to laugh - a bright and unusual sound coming from him and it made her skin crawl. “You’re disgusting.”

He turned her to face him and she roughly shrugged off his hand. “Isii, it wasn’t me,” he said, bewildered amusement playing across his features. “I’ve been awake for hours. I can no more wander the Fade in waking than you can.”

She paused, studying him before the sick feeling in her stomach grew, roiling with mortification as the reality of her accidental confession struck her. “You… you weren’t…”

He could not help but smile, leaning in closer to whisper. “Though perhaps I should take it as a comfort that you are having such dreams about me?”

“Shut up.”

His grin deepened. “If you truly cannot tell the difference between me and a fantasy, I feel as though I should take that as a compliment.”

“Gava em.”

He moved in again, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “Is that what you had me do?”

She thumped him hard across the chest and he chuckled, pulling back. “My apologies. I do not wish to embarrass you further.”

“Just…” She shook her head. No words would come. What in the Void was she supposed to say to that?

“We should finish breaking camp, should we not?” he said smoothly. “We would not want to delay further.”

“Right,” she said with a nod. “Just… get back to work.” She bundled the canvas from her tent in her hands, trying to stop them from shaking as she rolled up the cloth. He returned to his task and did not say anything more on the subject. Even so, she could not help but see the quiet grin he wore throughout the rest of the day and it made her chest feel tight.

 

* * *

##  Fen'Harel's POV:

 

He was only attempting to make small talk. He felt that tensions had lessened somewhat between them since their trip to his estate. While certainly not friendly, she was no longer openly hostile towards him. He saw that as progress, at least. The loss of her was still an open wound, but at least they could be civil with one another. 

He quickly second-guessed his assessment when she fixed her glare on him, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

He noted her posturing, the shift in her body, uncertain as to its cause. He’d done nothing to earn her ire, nor could he tell what had sparked it. “You’re going to have to be much more specific.”

She moved quickly, charging forward and striking him hard enough in the shoulders that he staggered back. “What in the Void do you think you’re playing at?”

Normally he could predict her moods. He knew her well enough by now that he felt he understood her mind. It made it all the more surprising as he stared at her, having no concept of why she was angry. “I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Are you really so desperate to get your hands on me that you would invade my privacy like that?” she spat, her voice strained, struggling to stay quiet for the sake of not being overheard. “What gives you the right to get inside my head… to make me think-”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” he said. At least that clarified her accusation. Did she really think he would enter her mind without permission? Whatever she’d imagined him doing in her dream, it was from her own consciousness, not his.

“Don’t lie to me.”

He pressed his tongue hard into his teeth, trying to control his anger. “Am I to believe you are so intent to hate me that you are now inventing misdeeds to blame me for?” 

“You know the only way I would ever let you touch me like that is if I didn’t think it was real.”

The words gave him pause, their open-ended nature instantly sparking his imagination. “Really now?” he asked, his head tilting.“And how exactly did you let me touch you?”

“You’re sick,” she snapped, turning away from him. The implication of her reply struck him hard. He could not help but imagine what she had dreamed about, his curiosity tearing at him.

“I should at least know what you are accusing me of, should I not?” he asked, keeping his voice low as he followed her. 

“I’m not going to give you a detailed account of you having your way with me.”  _Having my way with her? And what exactly did that entail?_ Had she dreamed of him taking her? Apparently she’d dreamed it in such detail that she could fool herself into thinking he’d actually been there. It must have been something she truly desired. He could  _feel_  that realization stir in his body. She still wanted him. 

“But now I’m relieved that Dorian woke me up when he did,” she added sharply.

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing. She’d had a sex dream about him. He could understand her anger if he had actually done what she accused him of, but seeing as he hadn’t it made the whole situation rather amusing. She’d confessed her lust on accident, yet even so he could not help but savor this moment. Some part of her still desired him, even if only physically. “You’re disgusting,” she hissed. 

He placed his hand to her shoulder, turning her to face him even as she violently pulled away from his touch. Her lips were parting, ready to object. “Isii, it wasn’t me.” He saw her freeze, staring at him as he smiled. “I’ve been awake for hours. I can no more wander the Fade in waking than you can.”

For a moment, she was completely still, only her eyes moving as they scanned his face. Her breaths hitched slightly, her brows tightening. “You… you weren’t…”

His grin broadened. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Though perhaps I should take it as a comfort that you are having such dreams about me?”

“Shut up.” The words came quickly, yet sounded shaky in their delivery. 

“If you truly cannot tell the difference between me and a fantasy, I feel as though I should take that as a compliment.”

“Gava em.”

 _Oh, the thoughts that stirred._  There was a part of him that desperately wanted to take her up on the command, to run his teeth along her neck just how he knew she liked it. Instead, he simply pulled close to her ear, whispering. “Is that what you had me do?”

She struck him in the chest and he pulled away. That was enough for now. He could tell she was mortified and he did not want to increase her discomfort. “My apologies,” he said, smoothing out his tone. “I do not wish to embarrass you further.”

“Just…” She stammered, unable to finish whatever sentence she was trying to construct, shaking her head. 

“We should finish breaking camp, should we not?” he offered. “We would not want to delay further.”

“Right,” she said, her voice pinched in her throat. “Just… get back to work.” Her hands were shaking as she gathered the canvas from her tent. He watched her silently from the corner of his eye as he returned to packing his belongings.

She wanted him. 

He smiled warmly.

It was a damned good start. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation:
> 
> gava em - bite me


	9. The Hissing Wastes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel's POV of the final scene in [Chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/10565673).

The image had stayed with him hours after the fact – the gentle slope of her waist, the fullness of her hips, the way water clung to her dark skin in dewing, glistening droplets. Even his self-conscious hesitation hadn’t stopped him from studying the way the water soaked into her breastband, the dampened cloth revealing subtle hints of what lay beneath. His reaction wasn’t merely lustful. It wasn’t as simple as that.  _Nothing_  involving her was as simple as that. Yet he couldn’t deny how his blood had quickened in his veins as he saw her partially stripped, trying to find relief from the heat. He couldn’t help but imagine a scenario in which he’d helped her in that aim, summoning a chill into his hands as he trailed them along overheated skin, feeling her shudder and coo under his touch…

Fen’Harel paused as he flattened his bedroll, closing his eyes, his brow furrowed. He may be able to control his urge to act on such impulses, but he couldn’t stop himself from having them in the first place. It did him no good to think of what he couldn’t have. Things were slowly improving between the two of them. He felt as though he was regaining her trust. The more he allowed himself to indulge in some fantasy, the harder it would be to resist the urge to push past the boundaries she had established.

He finished preparing his tent for the night. When he stepped back into the glow of the night sky, he could see Isii sitting alone by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He studied her for a moment, unseen, before slipping back into his tent and retrieving one of his furs.

She’d always hated the cold.

She jerked slightly, startled out of her thoughts as he draped the pelt across her shoulders. She took it, pinching the soft fur between her fingers as she pulled it around herself. “Thank you,” she muttered as he sat beside her.

“I take it Dorian and Bull have already retired for the evening?”

“I think they had their own ideas on how to keep warm.”

He lowered his gaze, trying to halt the image that instantly sprang into his mind, trying not to think of how warm she would feel beneath him, wrapped around him, hot breaths on his skin-

“Ah,” he mumbled, steam escaping his lips as the cold bit at his cheeks. It was all he could bring himself to say in response, an awkward silence falling between them.

“You know, for such a horrible place, the sky here is quite beautiful.” He looked up to find her gazing up at the stars, her lips warming into a distant, wistful smile. “Do you remember the first time we came to the Wastes?” she asked, her arms draping loosely around her knees. “Dorian got creeped out by how our eyes looked in the moonlight. He made such a fuss every time we happened to look at him that I started staring, just to mess with his head. He got so mad he chucked his bedroll at me and then spent the next hour shaking sand out of it.” He chuckled and she joined him. It felt like it had been a very long time since he’d heard her laugh. The sound warmed his chest as she lowered her gaze, her nails picking idly at her boots.

“I had no idea how cold it was going to be at night. I’d only brought my normal blanket-”

“I remember,” he said softly. He’d pulled her bedroll beside his own, allowing her to crawl beneath his blankets and furs. They were too narrow to easily stretch over the two of them, so he kept her close throughout the night, arms wrapped around her, her head resting against him. In truth, he had not slept much that first night. He spent a good portion of it watching her, worrying curls between his fingertips, listening to the slow rhythm of her breaths until his own unconsciously met the same pace. He remembered thinking about how incredibly lucky he was. Of all the ages, of all the places, of all the millions of souls that had come and gone in this world since he first came into being, he’d managed to find her through the most impossible of circumstances. He was not a man who believed in fate. Outcomes were the result of action, not some predetermined plan of mysterious design. But that night he watched her sleep and thought of all of the thousands of courses their lives could have taken and all the thousands of ways in which they never would have met and wondered if perhaps there was some larger meaning behind it all.

“You had me huddled up against you to keep warm,” she continued. “That position couldn’t have been comfortable to sleep in.”

“Not after the first hour, no,” he admitted quietly.

“Your shoulder must have been killing you the next day.”

He couldn’t help but grin, his brow lifting. “Healing magic has its uses.”

He cherished the sound of her giggling, laughing with her as her smile broadened. They fell silent again and he searched for something to say – something to sustain this rare moment of connection. “Thank you for this,” she murmured. “For suggesting we track down the artifact. For figuring out how to make it work. Without that, we’d be stumbling blind right now. You don’t know how relieved I am to have even the slightest clue about what Corypheus plans to do next.”

He studied her face, wondering how much he should say. In truth, the act was beneficial to his own ends, but his motivation was just as equally drawn by his desire to help her. The more prepared she was to face Corypheus, the stronger the chances were that she would survive the ordeal. The thought of her dying as a consequence of this war of his own making was unbearable. “As I’ve said before,” he began cautiously. “I take my commitments seriously. Anything I can do to aid the Inquisition, I will do without hesitation.”

She stared at him for a time, her expression softening into something he couldn’t quite comprehend. She shifted, resting her hand close to his side as she leaned her weight against it. “You’re not what I thought you would be, Fen’Harel.” The words left her lips like a soft breath, the warmth of which stirred within him.

“Is that so?” he whispered.

“You were good to me. When you and I were-” She hesitated then, frowning and uncertain, but the moment passed quickly. When her eyes lifted to his again there was something there, a sweetness and sincerity that he had not seen from her in months. “It wasn’t an act, was it?” she asked, her head tilting, curls slipping slowly from the side of her throat. “You meant it.”

This was what he had tried so hard to convince her of, the one truth in all of this he needed her to understand. Even if she never loved him again, even if she was never his again, he needed her to know that what they had been to each other was real. That his love for her had taken him by surprise, that the thought of refusing her affection was unbearable, even though he knew it put everything he was trying to accomplish at risk. He tentatively slid his hand over hers, fingertips tracing over her skin as if she were something delicate, half-expecting her to pull away out of fear.

She didn’t.

“Every word,” he murmured.

She licked her lips and he remembered how soft they’d felt against his own, how thrilling it had been the first time he kissed her,  _truly_ kissed her. The sweetness of those lips made him want to stay, to take and to give, to bend his world and reshape it around her. She stared up at him, her eyes shining in an iridescent, swirling film of green and gold and she was beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.

“Even now?” she whispered.

 _Yes. Yes. Of course, yes._ He loved her. He never stopped loving her. He never would, never  _could_ , stop loving her. Her eyes traced his lips, her own parting softly and he felt his heart leap. His fingers itched to cup her cheek, to draw her closer, to try in vain to kiss her in a way that would compensate for all the kisses they had missed in the past few months. But there was uncertainty in her eyes and he did not want to rush, did not want to push the boundaries she’d put into place, did not want to shake the already weak foundation they’d been building upon. Her chin tilted and he leaned forward, inching closer, desperate to taste her once more.

The sound of Dorian’s voice made her draw back and for a second he nearly gripped her by the nape and crushed his lips to hers, desperate not to let this moment slip away from him.

But it was gone.

When the disruption had settled, she lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable meeting his eye. “It’s late,” she muttered, pushing herself to her feet.

“Right,” he said, his voice feeling hollow. “It’s probably best-”

“-we get some sleep,” she finished quickly. “Ideally I want to get moving before daybreak in order to avoid some of the heat.”

“Reasonable,” he muttered.

She lingered a moment longer, watching him as he searched for something to say. “Well… goodnight,” she said softly.

“Sleep well.”

She disappeared into her tent, leaving the Dread Wolf to sit alone by the fire, the hissing winds and stinging cold doing little to numb the ache.

Still, she’d given him some small glimmer of hope.

Perhaps things could be different.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of Fen'Harel's POV for [Chapter 19.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3169394/chapters/13779675)

In truth, Fen’Harel was still finding it hard to believe how quickly things had changed between them.

Isii had been so distant in the past few months. He had given up hope that whatever love she’d felt for him before could be rekindled. He realized now that her reticence was an act of self-restraint - an attempt to impose control on a situation that felt overwhelming in its nature. She was the sort who would always mask her vulnerabilities - and loving him, knowing who and what he was, reframed those affections as a weakness. It hurt, knowing she’d felt that way, but he could understand it. He was the one man she had always been told to fear above all others.

And yet she still chose to return to him.

Anticipation had stirred since that first night - a welling, unrelenting urge to fulfill his desires plaguing him along their journey back to Skyhold. Each evening she stole away to his tent, or invited him to join her in her own, and in the chilling darkness he’d wanted to seek more than simply the warmth of her embrace. But she deserved more than hushed rutting and desperation. In the times when he allowed himself to imagine taking her, when the only relief he could find laid in the palm of his hand, it was always a slow exploration, a savored indulgence. He wanted to give, more than anything else. To hear her pleasure, to linger in each breath and sigh and moan. He had denied her for so long, before she knew the truth, and now he wanted to make up for ever making her feel as though her body was not desired just as intensely as her companionship.

He wanted their first time together to be perfect. For that, he was willing to wait.

He took some time to prepare upon their return to the castle he’d once called his own. Time to abandon his armor, to bathe, to redress. All the while the promise of what laid ahead for him stirred into a mixture of delight and expectation. That same heady tension propelled each step, conscious control keeping a measured pace as he strode through the quiet halls of Skyhold, slipping unseen into the Inquisitor’s quarters. Each rise along the stairs brought him another moment closer, resisting the urge to rush to her door like some giddy fool and yet he could not repress his elation and relief. It had little to do with the promise of sexual gratification. The fact that she loved him, that she wanted him again - it was more than he had allowed himself to hope for.

He knocked on her door, slipping quietly into her room when he heard her reply. He ascended the final set of steps and then she was there, staring back across the room from him, as beautiful as she’d ever been. The fireplace glowed golden against her dark skin, thick, silken curls draped along her shoulders, a thin robe leaving little to his imagination as she stood by the edge of her desk. And her eyes - so wide and bright and brilliant, searching his own, and he was captivated.  

He paused in the silence between them, eyeing her bathing tub. “I hope I am not interrupting,” he murmured, the thought lingering that perhaps she was preparing to bathe - a task with which he would more than gladly offer his assistance, if it was invited.

Isii shook her head, her weight shifting shyly as her fingers toyed with the edge of her desk. “No. I just finished.”

He smiled. “Good.”

He closed the distance between them slowly, noting how her breaths sped ever so slightly, the rise and fall of her chest moving under thin silk, cloth offering the barest suggestion of her nipples beneath. His eyes dropped to the knotted sash at her waist, smiling softly. “May I?” She offered little more than a nod, studying his face as his fingers slipped the tie loose, delicately peeling back the hemmed opening of her robe. Her body was bare beneath it and he found himself staring at the exquisite expanse of her skin. The swells of her breasts, the subtle roundness of her belly, the fullness of her hips - a body that was undeniably desirable and yet made all the more beautiful by the fact that it was hers. He could not help but find himself somewhat humbled, moved that she would be willing to share it with him.  

He smiled warmly, tilting her chin to meet his gaze. “Ina’lan’ehn,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Having only seen your body in darkness, I can assure you - shadows do not do you justice, vhenan.”

Solas drew himself closer, hands smoothing across the warm, soft skin of her sides, slipping up the taut curve of her back as her breaths shuddered. He breathed in her scent, skin kissed with sweet oils and wildflowers, his lips delicately tracing the length of her throat. She trembled against him, but her hands remained fixed on the edge of the desk, fingers tightening as she gripped the worn wood, her posture stiffening as he slid the robe further down her shoulders. He stilled, his palm flattening against the small of her back as she shivered and - _No._ Something was wrong. She wasn’t trembling from arousal or anticipation, the realization sinking like a heavy weight in his chest.

She was still afraid of him.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, the words thick on his tongue. He had been a fool, greedy in his assumption that she would want this so soon after finally opening up to him. He should not have rushed this. The wounds between them were not fully mended. He did not want her to think that this was all he desired from her - some debased possession of her body for his gratification. That wasn’t what he wanted. That wasn’t why he was there.

He pulled back, his brow stitched with apologetic concern as he searched her face. “Do you not want this?”

Isii shook her head quickly, making denials, but there was still an apprehensive tension in her voice as her eyes shifted uncomfortably. “I want this. It’s just…” Isii paused, taking a breath, her gaze meeting his own. “Would you believe I’m a little nervous? It’s not every day one beds a god.”

Fen’Harel let out a slow sigh, tilting her chin, his eyes scanning her features. He wasn’t a god. The concept itself was an absurd farce, a facade he wished he had never laid claim to. But there was no use in correcting her. From her perspective, was he not godlike? An immortal whose power went beyond her comprehension? She had no way of understanding how similar the two of them would have been, if she had not been born into this world of his own making. If she considered him a god now, it was only because she did not understand that she would have been a goddess by those same standards were it not for his own failings.

He brought his lips to her own. Gently. Slowly. Waiting for her to lead him further. Giving her control. He would not make any demands of her. He would take no more than what she freely gave him.

If this was what she truly desired, he wanted to make certain it was on her own terms.


End file.
